


Veins of Gold

by handwrittenhello



Series: Birthday Fics [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bounty Hunter Geralt, Cowboy Geralt, Ghost Jaskier | Dandelion, I Made Myself Cry, Jaskier | Dandelion and Renfri | Shrike are Siblings, M/M, Medium Yennefer, Stregobor Being an Asshole (The Witcher), Western, it's marked MCD but i swear it's a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: Geralt comes to the town of Oxenpeak seeking work. The mayor, Stregobor, tasks him with clearing the bandits out of the old gold mines, but Geralt soon discovers they aren't what they seem-- there are strange voices, and lights from nowhere, and deadly earthquakes. He'll need Renfri, Stregobor's daughter, and Yennefer, a medium, to help figure out what haunts the mines, and what Stregobor seems so keen on hiding.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Renfri | Shrike, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Renfri | Shrike, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, implied Renfri | Shrike/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Birthday Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059878
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	Veins of Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KHansen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/gifts).



> written for KHansen. happy birthday!!! (and sorry this is late.) also, I can't believe I wrote both MCD and caves, two things I hate. what are you doing to me
> 
> thanks to novoid for betaing!
> 
> ***content warning for description of death. if you'd like to skip it, go from "He can picture it happening" to "Geralt sits back on his heels"

Geralt spurs Roach on, carefully navigating through the dry gulch that carves its way through the middle of the Coyote Plains. He’s making good time and doesn’t want to rush, lest Roach roll an ankle in the sand.

He adjusts his wide-brimmed hat so that the high noontime sun isn’t directly in his eyes anymore. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it—a flash of movement behind a rock, so fast it would be unnoticeable to anyone without the well-trained eyes of a bounty hunter out west.

He unhooks his revolver from its holster, cocking it but keeping his finger off the trigger. Hopefully it’s just a stray critter that will scram once he gets too close.

Roach plods on, huffing in the heat, and Geralt remains on high alert. Any second now, they’ll be passing by the rock…

A low, hissing rattle starts up as they get closer. Fuck. A rattlesnake. Geralt pulls on Roach’s reins, slowing her down, and calmly, carefully, turns her to the side. He keeps his gun at the ready the entire time, ready to shoot should it choose to strike, but hopefully, they can all walk away from this encounter with no injuries.

It works; the rattlesnake lets them by but keeps up its warning until Geralt and Roach pass out of view. Geralt reholsters his revolver.

He doesn’t love the Wild West—had grown up in Appalachia, tramping through the forests with his brothers—but the cities along the coast are getting too crowded for his tastes, and the only jobs he was able to find were out west. He’d started out as a ranch hand, rustling cattle and working the fields, but the pay was shit and the company even shitter.

So as soon as he was able, he bought Roach and took off for the wilder, more untamed parts of the country, seeking work as a bounty hunter. The long days tracking down coyotes and other predators that preyed on the cattle came in handy, and now he’s one of the best-known bounty hunters in the damn country.

Right now he’s on his way to Oxenpeak, a small town at the base of Mt. Boldtooth. It’s out of the way, but wealthy, from what he’s heard. There’s a contract out against some bandits that have taken up in the old gold mine up there, and the pay promises to be good. Enough to last him months, even.

He spurs Roach on again, eager to pick up the pace and get out of the relentless sun. Even in autumn, it’s near-unbearably hot.

Oxenpeak comes into view once he exits the gulch, its dusty-yet-opulent houses a welcome sight. He ties Roach’s reins to the post outside the saloon and heads inside for a much-needed drink. The bartender shoots him an indifferent look as he enters, which is a fairly good reaction, by his standards. His white hair and unusual eyes make him stand out, and far too often he’s met with either fear or revulsion by strangers.

But this place seems happy enough to serve him, and he settles into a table in the corner with his drink in hand.

His plans for a quiet evening, however, are interrupted by a young woman with short brown hair sitting down across from him. “I’m here to drink alone,” he says stoically, to her complete lack of amusement.

“Funny, because I would’ve thought by the look of you, you’re here for the contract,” she replies, grabbing the bottle out of his hands and taking a swig. He raises any eyebrow at her boldness, and she raises one back.

“And how would you know?” he asks. So help him, he’s intrigued.

“You have that look about you. The one that says you’re used to trouble. I recognize it,” she replies.

From the way she holds herself, so deliberate with every move and word, he gets the feeling that it’s self-recognition she’s talking about. “I’m not here for trouble. I’m here to do a job and get paid,” he answers coolly.

“Trouble will find you anyway,” she murmurs with a far-away look in her eyes. “It always does.”

And with that ominous statement, she leaves him be, joining a group of men gathered around another table playing poker.

Despite his unaffected outward appearance, her words have left him deeply unsettled. She spoke with the gravity of someone far too scarred for their years, someone who knows the dark secrets that run underneath every town. Geralt can’t shake the feeling that he’s about to get himself into something deeper than he even knows.

* * *

He stays the night in a room above the saloon, hearing the keys of the piano plinking long into the night. When the sun rises, he gives up on sleep and departs to find the mayor, who can hopefully hash out the details of the contract with him.

The mayor lives in a large manor at the foot of the mountain, right at the beginning of the path that marks the ascent upwards towards the gold mines. Convenient. He leads Roach through the streets, which aren’t very crowded at this time of day, but he wants to stretch his legs and walk some of his annoyance out.

The buildings of the town get fancier and fancier as he approaches, large and lavish despite the town having a relatively small population. He shakes his head in disgust. He would bet anything that the people who live here made their fortunes on the broken backs of the gold miners.

The mayor’s manor is the most lavish of all, a sprawling estate that smells inexplicably and overpoweringly of fruit trees, though there are none to be seen. It’s cloying and almost immediately gives Geralt a headache.

The mayor himself, as Geralt sees when his butler brings him to him, is a portly, elderly fellow sporting a truly unfortunate beard, who looks like he’s never seen a day of work in his life. As Geralt expected.

“A bounty hunter, eh? Here for the bandits?” he asks.

Geralt inclines his head once.

“Good. It’s about time. We’ve been sitting on lost profits for far too long,” the mayor mutters. “You are to kill the bandits that have taken up in the mines, by any means necessary, and in return, you will be rewarded. Handsomely.”

“I need specifics,” Geralt bites out. The mayor already has his teeth set on edge. “How many are there? When did they move in? How big are the mines?”

“Somewhere between ten and forty, perhaps. I wouldn’t know,” the mayor says dismissively. “Will you take the contract or not?”

Geralt barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “I’ll take it,” he grinds out and takes his leave, unable to stand the mayor’s smug face for more than a second. Once outside, free from the stifling air of the manor, he takes his comfort in Roach, burying his face in her mane as he takes deep breaths.

“I see you’ve met Stregobor, then,” a voice says from behind him, and he turns around to see the same woman as last night standing there, crunching nonchalantly on an apple.

“Hmm,” Geralt responds. “Are you following me?”

“No,” she responds, taking another bite of her apple. “I live here. Unfortunately.”

Geralt frowns. She’s not dressed like he would expect of the mayor’s daughter—trousers and boots, instead of lacy dresses and silk. “The mayor—Stregobor—you’re related to him?”

The woman scowls. “Like I said. Unfortunately.” Done with her apple, she walks closer, offering the core up to Roach, who takes it eagerly.

“What is it you want?” he asks, because he’s been around too long not to recognize the desperation in her eyes. She wants something—most likely of him—badly, but the fact that she hasn’t said anything doesn’t bode well.

She turns fierce dark eyes on him. “I want him dead,” she bites out. “But somehow I don’t think you’re the man for the job.”

“I don’t usually kill without reason, no,” he says slowly, hoping she’ll take the hint for what it is.

“What if I had a reason?” she says. “What if I told you about the mines—”

“Renfri! Get inside this instant!” booms the mayor, stepping out onto the porch.

Her face sours. “Be careful in the mines. They aren’t what they seem,” she says cryptically before turning around and stalking towards the manor. Geralt can vaguely hear Stregobor berating her before the heavy doors slam shut behind them.

He shakes off his unease. As much as he might dislike Stregobor—and as much as he might want to help Renfri—he has a job to do, a contract he accepted.

He swings up onto Roach’s saddle and sets off towards the mines.

* * *

The entrance is innocuous enough—long-abandoned, it seems, no fresh footprints and undisturbed grass. It doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything—there could be another entrance the bandits use. But Geralt files the knowledge away in the back of his head anyway.

He leaves Roach to graze, taking his saddlebags with him in case the mines are deeper than he thought and it ends up being an overnight stay. He’s not worried about her—she knows to run from trouble, and also not wander too far and come when called.

It’s a fairly straightforward path for the first leg of his journey—a gently downwards-sloping path, the tunnel wide and well-shored up by structural supports. It’s maybe half an hour before he comes upon the first true fork—the left branch leads up, and the right branch leads down.

He himself doesn’t have an instinctive uneasiness of being underground, but he knows that many do. Chances are the bandits haven’t dug themselves as deep as possible—he chooses the left branch, wondering if he’ll end up on the other side of the mountain eventually.

This tunnel is significantly narrower and twistier, and his progress slows significantly as he picks his way along. To top it all off, his lantern is running low on oil, if the way it keeps flickering is any indication. He curses under his breath.

He’s too far into the cave to turn back, though; his lantern will be dead before he gets even a quarter of the way back. His only option is to keep pushing forward, in hopes of coming across another lantern to switch out with his own.

His light gets progressively dimmer as he continues. Fuck. He  _ really  _ doesn’t want to face the shame of having to be rescued—or worse, to die alone and forgotten deep in this treacherous cave.

And then, right as the flame breathes its last and winks out, he sees it up ahead—around the corner, flickering firelight.

It must be the bandits’ camp.

He sets his dead lantern down in the dust—no use for it, now. As quietly as he can, he creeps closer, and hears the muttering of voices grow louder as he does. He takes a moment to check that his gun is fully loaded—it is—and peeks around the corner.

The tunnel ends in an absolutely massive cavern. The walls shine with gold, like veins filled with fire running through the earth’s body. But the strangest thing of all is that he can see no lanterns, no torches, no fire—it’s as if the light is coming from the gold itself.

And those voices he heard? They stop the moment he sets foot in the cavern—and there’s nobody in sight. Geralt fights down the shiver that crawls down his spine. He could have  _ sworn _ —but no, he must have been wrong. Hearing things, after so long in the complete, crushing silence of the mines.

But if the bandits aren’t here, then where are they? He steps fully into the cavern, eyes searching for any signs of life—the smoldering embers of a fire, discarded food waste, footsteps in the dust—but there’s nothing, only a pile of old miners’ tools in the corner. But they look long undisturbed, Not a rock out of place, not a mote of dust disturbed, bar those he’s kicking up with his own footsteps.

“ _ Get out _ .”

He freezes. Did someone just—? He whips around, expecting someone behind him, but there’s nothing, only the barest whisper of a gust of wind gusting across the back of his neck. He shivers, but not because of the cold.

Renfri was right—there’s more going on than he knows. Time to get out of here, regroup, do some research before returning.

He grabs the lantern from the pile in the corner—it lights easily, something he’s thankful for, although this one too flickers like his own lantern had. Something in the air, maybe? Not enough oxygen? Whatever it is, he’s not eager to find out. He hurries out of the cavern and back the way he came—at the fork, he briefly considers going down the other path, the right-hand way, but dismisses it. He has the feeling that whatever’s going on is contained to the golden cavern.

Once he reaches the exit, he takes a deep breath of the night air. He didn’t even notice, but he’d spent the entire day down in the mines, apparently. Roach is right where he left her, munching away contentedly at the sparse grass. He swings up onto her, heading back into town.

* * *

He was hoping to see Renfri at the saloon that night, but when he swings the doors open, she’s nowhere in sight. He sighs and orders food, famished after a whole day accidentally spent without. He’s also exhausted, probably from tramping through the mines all day, and losing however much time he did down there. When he falls into bed that night, though, it’s not the dreamless sleep he would have liked; he’s haunted by indistinct images—flickering gold, icy blue eyes, the endless depth of the mines.

He awakes grumpy and slow, and rather than risking facing Stregobor to get to Renfri, he decides to start his search at the local records office. It’s often far too easy to uncover a town’s dirty secrets simply by looking through their official records—newspapers, sheriff’s reports, the like.

The clerk is a young, nervous-looking man with almost pointy ears. “I’d like to look through your records,” Geralt greets him gruffly.

“What are you looking for?” the clerk asks, leading him to a large room filled with boxes.

“Got anything about the old mines? Deeds to the land, news articles, anything?”

The clerk nods and starts sorting through the boxes, setting aside and discarding papers in turn. In a few minutes, he has a nice little pile, which he hands to Geralt. “Don’t tear anything, please. It would be difficult to replace.”

“I’ll be careful,” Geralt assures him, if only because the poor clerk looks ready to faint at any second. The clerk nods, relieved, and leaves him alone, and Geralt starts sorting through the information he’s been given.

A lot of it is standard fare—reports about the exports and imports of the mine, hiring notices, and profit updates. There are two newspaper articles—one is dated nearly fifty years ago and gives a brief report on the new mine Irion Stregobor just opened up. There’s nothing immediately out of order there, so he moves on to the next article.

This one, by contrast, is a scathing report about the dangers and malpractices going on inside the mine. It dates to only ten years ago, written by a Julian Pankratz, and all but goes for Stregobor’s throat. Even Geralt, who’s seen the evils men can do all too well, is a little shocked by some of the things the article talks about.

Renfri was right—the mine is far from innocent; or rather, Stregobor is far from innocent. If the rumors are true, then he’s responsible for atrocities.

Geralt returns the records to the very grateful clerk and leaves to find Renfri. He has to know more before he risks going into the mines again.

To his relief, it isn’t Stregobor or his butler who answers his knock at the door—it’s Renfri, who looks unsurprised to see him. “Come on,” she says shortly, before he can even get a word out, and leads him away from the manor, away from prying eyes and ears.

“You went to the mines,” she surmises, looking him in the eye. “What did you find?”

“No bandits, that’s for sure. Unless they’re very good at hiding,” he says drily. “But there’s no signs of entry recently—not for weeks, if not months, by my count.”

She grimaces. “Thought so. I knew it was a mistake, putting out a contract on them.” She crosses her arms and leans back against the fence, her expression suddenly becoming closed off. “You’ll be leaving, then?”

“Do you… want me to?” he offers. “I know I took a job to kill the bandits, but something tells me there’s more going on in that mine than meets the eye.”

“You’re staying?” she asks suspiciously—but there’s a note of hope to her voice. She wants him to stay, he realizes, wants him to investigate the mines.

“Yes. Now tell me—what happened in there that Stregobor is so eager to hide?”

She hunches her shoulders and looks down. “There was an accident. A cave-in. Years ago. Only Stregobor survived.”

Geralt  _ hmm _ s.

“Ever since, nobody will set foot in the mines. They say it’s haunted—there are voices from nowhere, and strange lights, and the ground shifts as if the earth is quaking.”

“You’re saying it’s ghosts,” he responds.

“No need to laugh,” she spits, taking his neutrality for barely-contained humor. “If you’re not going to believe me, then you might as well leave anyway.”

“I wasn’t laughing,” he reassures her. “I believe you.” Because what else could explain the feeling he got down there, the voices he heard?

She looks at him critically for another moment, then sighs. “Okay.”

“Will you come to the mines with me?” Geralt asks her. “You know more about them than I do. I’d appreciate the help.”

“I can’t,” she says regretfully. “Every time I go near, it’s like I can hear it. Their screams.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Nobody else believes me.” She snaps back to herself with a shake of her head. “What I can do is distract Stregobor. He won’t be happy that I’ve bewitched you.”

“Hmm. Thank you,” Geralt says, and she nods and heads back into the manor, shoulders squared. Geralt takes Roach and braces himself for another trek into the mines.

This time, as he dismounts Roach near the entrance, he makes sure that his lantern has plenty of oil. He hurries through the tunnels, not wanting to lose an entire day like last time. Just as he approaches the cavern, however, his lantern flickers and dies.

Hmm. Not natural. There’s definitely truth to Renfri’s story.

He steps into the cavern, once again awash in that golden glow. Nothing much has changed since he was last here.

“Hello?” he calls out, bracing himself for—who even knows what. It echoes around the cavern, dying out into a ringing silence. He waits, holding his breath.

And then—a whisper of cold on the back of his neck, like fingers brushing across it.

“Hello? I—I know you’re there. Renfri told me about you,” he tries. “I’m here to help.”

_ “Get out!”  _ screeches a whispery voice, directly in his ear. He jumps. “ _ Leave!” _

“Please. I want to help you,” he begs, even as the ground begins to rumble ominously. Fuck. He’s risking being caught in a cave-in if he stays. These old tunnels have already collapsed once, according to Renfri.

“You’re not going anywhere,” says a deep voice behind him, entirely real and solid. Geralt whirls around on unsteady feet to see Stregobor, holding a shotgun aimed directly at his chest. Geralt’s heart stops.

“Stregobor. Here to kill me, like you killed so many others?” Geralt asks, far more calmly than he feels.

“You were supposed to kill the bandits,” Stregobor replies. “Why did you have to complicate matters?”

“There were never any bandits. You lied,” Geralt says, gritting his teeth. “I know what you did, and you do, too.”

“No. No, you’re lying—of course there were bandits. Renfri has—has influenced you, gotten into your mind with her evil words,” Stregobor insists, shaking his head.

“Renfri hasn’t done a thing except tell me the truth. You killed them, Stregobor. You worked the miners to their deaths and worse. I know it, Renfri knows it, and soon the entire town will know. You’ll have to answer for your crimes.”

Stregobor’s face grows progressively more incandescent with rage as Geralt speaks. By the end of it, he’s shaking with fury. “No! Nobody will know! I’ll make sure of it! Starting with you, and then with that wretched daughter of mine,” he snarls, cocking his gun.

Geralt has no time to think. Stregobor’s finger is on the trigger, and then he’s pulling it, and all Geralt can do is stare down the barrel.

Then something hits him square in the chest, like a ton of bricks. There’s no pain, though, not like he would expect from a bullet. He falls backward with a thump, hears the gun go off.

He lies there, winded, and can only watch what happens next. Stregobor curses, fiddling to reload the gun, and then something  _ moves,  _ like the air itself, the barest ripple in front of him. Stregobor yells as he’s pushed backward, all the air leaving his lungs as his back hits the wall.

There’s a high, wordless scream that fills the air, chilling and terrible. Stregobor’s eyes bulge out, his hands flying to his throat as the shotgun falls harmlessly to the ground. He’s choking on something, on nothing, but Geralt can see crescent-like indents appearing on his neck—as if fingernails are digging in.

“Jul—J—” Stregobor chokes out, scratching uselessly at his neck. It’s horrifying, watching him die right in front of him, but Geralt can’t help but feel relieved. Stregobor is a murderer, after all, and was going to kill Geralt without breaking a sweat.

He pushes himself to his feet and watches dispassionately as Stregobor shudders and chokes and dies before his eyes. It’s too long and not long enough before he’s slumping lifelessly to the ground.

Dead.

“ _ Leave,”  _ says that same whispery voice—the ghost, Geralt knows. But it doesn’t sound angry anymore, just… sad. Empty.

“Thank you for helping me,” Geralt says carefully. He doesn’t want to risk setting the ghost off again. “But I won’t leave until I’ve helped you. What is it you want?”

_ “Leave,”  _ the ghost repeats, but it doesn’t sound so much like the order it was before. “ _ Leave.” _

“You… want to leave?” Geralt guesses and is rewarded with another cool breeze down his neck, at the same time as the golden veins running through the cavern walls flare bright. He’ll take that for confirmation, then. “How? How can I help you leave?”

“ _ Renfri,”  _ the ghost says.

“She can’t come in here, though,” Geralt responds. “What should I do?”

But this time, there’s no response. He waits, wanting something, anything else to go off of. But there’s nothing.

He gives up and leaves the cavern behind, throwing one more regretful glance behind him. He’ll be back. He has to help this ghost, who, despite murdering a man right in front of Geralt, only seems sad.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t bother knocking at the manor’s door this time. He barges straight in, ignoring the butler’s protests. “Renfri!” he calls, darting from room to room. He finds her upstairs, unconscious on her bed and handcuffed to the bedposts.

“Fuck,” he curses, casting around for the key. It’s not in immediate view. “Renfri. Come on, wake up,” he urges, shaking her gently.

She comes awake with a groan. “Oh, that bastard,” she spits when she sees Geralt standing over her, scuffed and dusty. “Let me out. There are picks in the desk,” she orders, and Geralt makes quick work of the handcuffs with them.

“What happened?” Geralt asks as she sits up, rubbing at her wrists.

“I tried to distract him, but he got suspicious. Knocked me out and left me up here. Where—have you seen him?” she asks urgently. “I think he was heading up the mountain.”

“He’s dead,” Geralt says grimly. “Sorry.”

Renfri breathes out slowly. “No, don’t be sorry,” she answers. “He deserved it. We have to hurry, though. If the sheriff finds out you killed him…”

Geralt doesn’t bother correcting her. “I need your help. I spoke to the ghost—it would only say ‘leave’ and ‘Renfri’. What do you know that I don’t?”

Renfri goes pale. “Are you sure? He said my name?”

Geralt hums affirmatively. “How does it know you?”

“It—it can’t be. No.” She shakes her head. “You must have misheard.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “Renfri. What do you know that I don’t?”

She leaps off the bed. “Come on. I’ll take you to see Yennefer,” she says, refusing to answer. Geralt has no choice but to follow her down the street to the very edge of town, where a lone house lies.

It’s fancy—not as much as the mayor’s manor, but certainly no shack, either. Lilac bushes surround it, nearly as tall as the house itself, impossibly vibrant for being in the middle of the desert. Their smell is intoxicating, hitting Geralt like a shovel to the face.

Renfri, though, seems unaffected, and marches right up to the door and starts pounding on it. “Yennefer!” she shouts.

Geralt shakes his head, regaining his senses, and joins her. After a few moments, the door swings open, though there’s apparently nobody behind it. Odd.

Renfri strides right in, directly to the sitting room, a cozy yet regal affair—thick drapes cast the room in shadow, candlelight taking front stage, and the walls are covered in sheer tapestries. In an armchair in the corner sits a raven-haired woman, eyes closed and hands hovering over a crystal ball on the table in front of her.

“Yennefer,” Renfri interrupts. “We need your help.”

Yennefer opens her eyes, revealing stunning violet irises that seem to pierce right through Geralt. He’s not easily intimidated, but he feels particularly like an insect under glass right now. “A bounty hunter,” she says, rising out of her chair smoothly. “Geralt, correct?”

“How did you know that?” he demands. He’s not a very well-known bounty hunter—how could she have heard of him?

“I know things. Call it my business,” she says, beckoning him to sit down across from her. He complies stiffly. “You need something from me, but I need payment, first.”

“I don’t even know why we’re here,” he growls, glancing at Renfri.

“She’s a medium,” supplies Renfri. “She can help us communicate with the ghost, figure out how to help.”

“You mean the boy in the mines, I presume?” Yennefer interrupts. “Yes, he’s quite upset. But as I said, I need payment before I do anything.”

Geralt huffs, handing over a coin purse. She weighs it in her hand, finding it satisfactory, and tucks it away. Then she takes Geralt’s hands in her own well-manicured ones, closing her eyes. Geralt does the same.

“Think of the cavern,” she instructs Geralt in a low voice. “What does it feel like? What does he feel like?”

Geralt casts his mind back to the mine, its dark corners, its golden glow. He remembers that whispery voice, the cool breeze that felt like fingers on the back of his neck, the deep rumble of the earth when the ghost was angry.

He pictures himself there, and then it’s as if he's actually there, standing in the cavern with Yennefer beside him.

“We would speak to you,” Yennefer intones. “Show yourself.”

And then he appears—not just a ripple in the air, anymore. Before them stands a young man with piercing blue eyes and brown hair, dressed somewhat nicely, if a bit rumpled.

And his neck stands at an unnatural angle, jutting out disturbingly as if snapped. It must be how he died.

“Hello, Yennefer, you heinous bitch. What is it this time?” he says jovially. Then he sees Geralt. “What are you doing here?” he shouts, his mood completely flipped. “Get out!”

“He’s with me, Jaskier, it’s fine,” Yennefer says shortly. “We’re both safe in my parlor.”

“Oh,” the young man—Jaskier, apparently—says. “What do you want?”

“I want to help you. You want to leave, correct?” Geralt asks. “That’s what you said.”

Jaskier huffs. “Yes, obviously. It’s not fun spending my entire afterlife stuck in this damn cave with only Yennefer to talk to.”

“I can always ignore you,” Yennefer says sweetly.

“Stop it,” Geralt growls. “How can I make you leave? You mentioned Renfri. Do we need her?”

“You talked to Renfri?” Jaskier asks, scrambling closer. It’s disturbing to watch, the way his head bobbles around on his shoulders. “Please, is she okay? When my father showed up, I thought—”

“Wait. Your father? Is Stregobor your father?” Geralt interrupts. A clearer picture is being formed in his head, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Hardly. Fucking bastard, always treating us like shit. And Mother, too, I’ve always suspected, but I couldn’t prove anything. I tried to keep Renfri safe, tried to stay out of his way, but when I heard about the miners…”

“What about the miners?” Geralt asks, but he suspects he already knows.

“He owned this mine, used to drive them half-mad with his demands for more productivity. Unsafe working conditions, strange accidents, coverups… Nearly half the town was dead before I couldn’t take it anymore. I went public with it, published it in the newspaper—he didn’t take too kindly to that,” Jaskier finishes, gesturing to himself.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs. “If it’s any consolation, Renfri is definitely safe now.”

“Good. Yeah, that’s good,” Jaskier says, nodding. “Would you take a message to her?”

Geralt nods.

“Would you tell her I’m sorry for leaving her?” Jaskier asks, and his expression is absolutely heartbreaking. He’s biting his lip, looking so hopefully sad—in an instant, Geralt knows he would do absolutely anything to wipe that expression off his face.

“Of course,” Geralt replies softly.

Yennefer takes his hand, then, and turns to Jaskier. “I can’t hold it much longer. Last words, if you please.”

“I already had those,” Jaskier jokes, then turns somber. “But, Geralt, would you visit again? I just—it gets so lonely.”

“I will,” Geralt promises, and then he blinks and finds himself back in Yennefer’s parlor again. Renfri is pacing anxiously, biting at her thumbnail, and when she sees Geralt and Yennefer back with the land of the living, she jumps to action.

“Well? What did you learn?” she asks.

“Jaskier says he’s sorry for leaving you,” Geralt reports, and Renfri’s face crumples.

“No. It can’t—I don’t want it to be him. It can’t be him,” she says brokenly, sounding seconds away from bursting into tears.

“I’m sorry,” is all Geralt can offer, and she flees, storming out of Yennefer’s house and slamming the door behind her.

“Well, that went well,” Yennefer says sarcastically.

Geralt turns to her. “Why didn’t you ever tell her?”

“It wasn’t my place. I speak with the dead, not for them.”

Geralt growls and pushes away from the table.

“Lovely doing business with you,” Yennefer calls after him. Outside, Geralt scrubs his hands over his face. Fuck. There will be no more help from Renfri, that much is clear—and time is quickly running out before someone notices that Stregobor hasn’t been seen in a while. If he wants to save Jaskier, he has to find out how, and quickly, before he gets arrested for murder.

* * *

His only lead is the mines. They’re what Jaskier is tied to, clearly, and they played an important hand in his death. He treks back there, arriving just as the sun sets in the distance.

The trip to the cavern passes in a blur, almost familiar to him by this point. When he gets there, he calls out for Jaskier—but there’s no response.

His determination hasn’t left him, though, and he begins his search. If he can figure out how Jaskier died, then perhaps there will be a clue as to how to release his soul. He goes over everything with a close eye—the pile of supplies in the corner, the walls, even the floor.

And then he sees it—the tiniest seam in the cavern wall, nearly obscured by the bright shine of the gold woven through it. He picks at it with his finger, notes the way the rock around it easily crumbles.

Renfri had spoken of a cave-in. Did this used to be another tunnel? Geralt chips away at it some more, briefly returning to the pile of tools to grab the pickaxe. As desperate as he is, he doesn’t want to risk another cave-in, so he goes slowly, keeping an ear out for that familiar rumble of stone and earth.

A couple hours later, and he’s fully broken through—beyond lies a void of empty space, completely black, a small ledge directly in front of Geralt the only thing he can see. He shivers. It’s the perfect spot to hide a body—nobody would ever find it, this deep.

He can picture it happening—Stregobor drags Jaskier over to the ledge, furious at his son’s disobedience, and it’s all too easy to just… throw him over. Quick, though definitely not painless or silent.

Jaskier’s neck was broken—did it kill him immediately upon impact at the bottom? Geralt hopes so. To think of him suffering for hours down there, alone and in agony…

And then, of course, Stregobor would have had to cover up any evidence of his crime to be safe. The cave-in might have been intentional, might have been accidental, but it did the job; the ledge was completely hidden from anyone not looking for it.

Geralt sits back on his heels, overcome by grief. Stregobor deserved a slower death.

“ _ Geralt,”  _ he hears, faint, but there. Jaskier.

“I’m here. I’m sorry.” It’s pathetic, but he can’t think of anything else to say. How do you comfort someone over their own death? “You didn’t deserve this.”

“ _ Thank you,”  _ he receives in response, along with those cold fingers on the back of his neck. “ _ Leave?” _

“I’m—I’m trying, I promise. I’m trying to figure out what’s keeping you here.” His first thought would be Renfri, but Jaskier isn’t tied to her; he’s tied to this cavern. “It’s related to the cavern, it must be, right?”

More cold fingers down the back of his neck—an affirmative.

“But what? There’s—Jaskier, there’s hardly anything here. A pickaxe, some rope, an old lantern—none of that makes sense.”

He waits but gets nothing in response. A sign to keep going?

“What is it? The ledge? The rocks?” Cold—he’s getting warmer? “The walls? The—of course. The gold.”

It’s like a bucket of ice down his shirt. Bingo.

“Of course. You’re tied to the gold. Greed killed you, and greed won’t let you go.” He shakes his head—the greed of humans never fails to astound him.

“ _ Leave,”  _ he hears again, that ever-present longing.

“I know, Jaskier, I know.” But how? Destroy the gold, perhaps?

He hefts the pickaxe again and swings experimentally at the wall. It strikes true, piercing a golden vein, and the otherworldly glow flickers once and dies.

Cold fingers on his neck. Yes. This is how. Destroy the source of greed forever, and Jaskier will finally be free. He swings again and again, faster and faster, the cavern darkening each time. He’s like a man possessed—and maybe he is, maybe Jaskier’s spirit has possessed him in his fervor to destroy the gold.

He doesn’t care. This is justice. This is the answer.

The cavern is nearly black when he hears it—voices, coming from the main tunnel. Shit—he's out of time. The townspeople must have discovered what happened. He can only hope that they left Renfri out of it, that she’s safe.

He pounds at the wall harder, frantic in his motions, heedless of the consequences. He’s almost done. He’s so close. The earth rumbles.

“There he is! The killer!” someone yells behind him. The crowd murmurs. “He’s trying to steal the gold for himself and run!”

“Get him!”

They’re too close. With one last yell, Geralt swings the pickaxe with all his might, shattering the last gold vein, plunging everything into darkness. The rumbling grows louder, deafening. He hears screams, cries of “Get back!”

The last thing he feels is cold fingers on the back of his neck before the cavern tumbles down on top of him.

* * *

He wakes up in the grass outside the mines, Roach grazing by his side. “Hey, girl,” he murmurs. Her ears flick back. He pushes himself to his feet, trying in vain to dust himself off, but it’s no use. It’s well and truly ground into his skin, his clothes. Oh well.

But wait—how did he get here? He remembers Jaskier, the cavern, the townspeople, the collapse—is everyone else alright? He spies a crowd down at the base of the mountain—they must have gotten out in time. Good.

Did they drag him out? Not likely, with how murderous they seemed. Was it Renfri? But she would have been here when he woke up, surely. Not left him to wake up alone with only his horse.

His head hurts. He rubs at it, feels it tacky with blood. Fuck,  _ ouch _ . With a head injury like that, he’s lucky he escaped alive.

“Hello, Geralt,” says a familiar voice behind him. He turns.

It’s Jaskier, in the flesh, looking as real and solid as anyone else. His neck is no longer bent at that horrible angle, and he looks—good, honestly, very good.

“Jaskier,” he says, surprising himself with his voice’s roughness. “You’re—you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, smiling sadly. “Thank you. You saved me.”

Geralt feels himself smiling, too. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Oh, Geralt, dear, you did more than enough. Too much, in fact. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” There are tears slipping down Jaskier’s face. For him?

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks slowly. He thought it was over, the problem solved. Why does Jaskier look so  _ sad? _

“Geralt, love. Look at me. How can you see me?”

“I… don’t know. I assumed… since you’re free now, maybe…”

“Yes, but Geralt… I’m still dead.”

Geralt frowns. He doesn’t understand. Unless Jaskier means… “Oh,” he breathes. “I’m dead too.”

Jaskier nods. “I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for any of it to happen.”

To his surprise, all Geralt feels is a quiet acceptance. He’s not angry—though he is a bit sad for Roach and for Renfri. He hopes she’s alright, and he hopes someone takes care of Roach. But more than that, he’s happy he was able to help Jaskier, happy that those evil mines were finally destroyed, happy that justice has been had.

“It’s alright. I don’t blame you,” Geralt replies, and finally, Jaskier loses a bit of the heartbroken sadness he's carrying. “Now, will you show me around some?”

“Of course. You’re stuck with me for a good long while,” Jaskier warns. “I owe you.” He takes Geralt’s hand in his own, and leads him off into their afterlife. Together.

* * *

(Afterwards, now that he’s not bound to one location, Jaskier teaches Geralt how to talk to Yennefer. Geralt arranges for Roach to go to Renfri—who has taken up a position as mayor, the town completely enamored by her, to Geralt and Jaskier’s delight. Renfri finally comes around to talking to Jaskier, even, a few months later, and Yennefer is always willing to facilitate conversations. They’re quite happy together, in fact.

It’s more than Geralt could have hoped for.)

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment, if you liked it! also, find me on tumblr [here](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr.com)!


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